


from the dead: a sense of scale

by Anonymous



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Overdosing, Self-Harm, Suicide, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25985782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sergio finds him at the hospital."Hi," Martín says. He grins. "Andrés couldn't make it?"
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martín Berrote & Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68
Collections: Anonymous





	from the dead: a sense of scale

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings in the tags, for archive warnings feel free to check the end notes

Martín doesn't know how it happens.

He doesn't even know what happens, really.

It starts out small, like most things do.

He doesn't really feel like leaving his home a lot. He bulk buys groceries.

Four days in, he eats cereal for breakfast, cereal for lunch, cereal for dinner.

Two weeks in, he doesn't eat.

A month in, he is popping pills every time he feels vaguely hungry, because feeling hungry is a lot like feeling empty, and Martín has just been feeling _so empty_ , for so long.

A month and a half in.

He lies in the middle of his living room. Watches the ceiling. Watches the ceiling _breathe._

He tries to breathe along with it.

His lips will turn blue, soon. He doesn't know that yet.

On the ceiling: Andrés.

Martín sees Andrés everywhere.

He dreams of the man, too. More like nightmares.

He dreams of them, in an empty void of space, black, everywhere black, and he dreams of Andrés reaching out, he dreams of feeling light-headed, like he is about to faint, and Andrés reaches out, reaches out, Martín is so ready for it--

He wakes up, before Andrés can touch him.

Martín can't quite remember what it felt like, to be touched.

Martín can't remember much in general.

He reaches an arm out, towards the ceiling.

The ceiling turns into the sky, and it starts to rain.

Martín opens his mouth. He feels rain. He feels it, now.

He passes out.

He doesn't wake up for a while.

*

Sergio finds him at the hospital.

"Hi," Martín says. He grins. "Andrés couldn't make it?"

"Martín," Sergio says. He licks his lips. He pushes his glasses up with a nervous hand.

Martín stares at Sergio. "You need to get me out of here. Come on. You need to get me out of here."

"You almost died," Sergio says.

(Come on. Come on, Sergio, you have to, you owe me this much, don't you? You owe me this.)

Sergio signs Martín out.

*

Martín tells his dealer. He says, _you almost killed me, asshole._

His dealer doesn't think it's that funny.

He has come to care about Martín.

It's disgusting, the thought of it.

Martín finds another dealer.

Martín tells them about it. He says, _my last dealer, he was such a pussy,_ he says, _give me something that will make me meet God and then come back,_ he says, _come on, give me something._

He puts his chairs up on the walls. He goes into his fridge, only finds an expired carton of yogurt. He eats it with bare hands.

He calls Sergio.

"You tell your fucking brother," he says, "you tell him that I don't fucking care about him anymore. He can go fuck himself."

He hangs up.

Sergio calls him back, a bunch of times. Martín never bothers to answer.

*

The days blend together like water and dirt, like water and blood.

Sergio shows up at his door.

"I think you should come live with me," he says.

Martín can't see, his vision is so blurry that he thinks he might be going blind.

When was the last time he took a shower? He can't even remember. His hair feels oily, where it's plastered against his face.

His hair is getting too long. Martín should just shave it all off and call it a day.

At least he brushed his teeth this morning. Or he thinks he did. Did he? He tries to remember the morning.

He can't remember shit.

Is he getting Alzheimer's now too? That would be the cherry on top of everything.

"It would be a change of scene," Sergio says.

Martín kisses him.

Sergio hits the wall. Martín follows. He arches his body into it, he gives it his all.

Sergio is frozen, for a few seconds at least.

Then he raises his hands, pushes Martín away. Martín goes crashing to the floor.

He hits his head. "Ouch," he says. Even though he doesn't feel the pain.

"Sorry," Sergio says. He keeps apologizing.

Martín rubs at his head. He keeps rubbing at it, trying to feel something, the friction, the touch against his head or his palm or something--

He doesn't feel anything.

"Stop saying sorry," he says in the end.

He just wants Sergio to shut up.

He gets to his knees. The world is spinning, all around him.

Sergio looks concerned.

"No," Sergio says, when Martín moves towards him. He holds out a hand, like Martín is a bad dog.

"No?" Martín asks. From down where he is, Sergio looks 10 feet tall. He looks like a building.

Sergio is plastered against the wall like he wants to bury himself in it.

"Why not?" Martín asks. He runs his eyes up and down Sergio. The man is stiff with tension. Martín just wants Sergio to relax for a second.

"I--that's--I'm not--you're not--" Sergio keeps stuttering.

Martín gets up, wobbles a little, but finds his balance. "Is this about Andrés?"

Sergio's whole expression changes.

"No," he says, then. He looks at Martín, he looks away. "It's not."

"He doesn't need to find out, you know?" Martín takes a step forward.

Sergio's head snaps to him.

"Martín," he starts.

Martín doesn't let him finish.

"Why do you want me to live with you?" he asks. He takes a step back, then another, then another. He falls backwards to the couch, curls up in himself.

Sergio sighs. He relaxes, just a little. "I'm concerned about you," he says.

Martín laughs. He rolls onto his back and looks at the ceiling. He should paint it black, maybe. That would be pretty.

"Yet you won't give me a pity blowjob."

He doesn't know what happens next.

He wakes up in his own bed, covered in sweat.

Sergio is nowhere to be seen.

*

"Hijo de puta," he says, "I just found one of your sketchbooks. Not gay my ass. This is gay, Andrés. The amount of times you sketched me…"

He looks back down to the notebook in front of him. On the page, his own face. His body, or what his body used to be.

He feels empty all of a sudden. He rubs at his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.

His hands are shaking. He is shaking all over.

"You should do some… soul-searching or whatever. I hear it's good for you," he licks his lips. He doesn't know what else to say.

On the page, on every page, his face or his back or his hands or his eyes or his hair or his lips or his chest or his legs.

"Don't call me back," he says. "I--I don't want to hear your voice again."

He hangs up the phone.

He dials the number.

"This is Andrés. Leave a message after the beep."

He hangs up.

He dials the number again.

He runs out of battery. For dinner, he pops Ecstasy.

*

"I just wanted to check in," Sergio says. "Please call me back."

Martín doesn't.

Every day, he lays down on his bed, and he cries until he can't breathe.

He rubs his hands all over himself. He imagines it's Andrés doing it.

One day, he will bleed out on this bed.

He doesn't know that yet.

He runs his hands over his arms, his waist, his hair, his cheeks. Everywhere Andrés has ever touched him.

He can't remember what it felt like, no matter how hard he tries.

He touches his neck. Tries to choke himself to death, just to see if he can do it.

Tries and tries and tries and tries.

He can't do it, no matter what he does.

So, he goes to the bathroom, and tries to drown himself.

*

"You didn't call me back," Sergio says. Martín is laying on the floor, his head inside his fridge. "I was… worried."

"Worried about what?" Martín asks, just to be an asshole.

Sergio purses his lips. He looks away.

"Martín, you can't keep doing this--"

"Why not?" Martín sits up. His head is cold. The rest of his body is burning.

"This… this isn't healthy." Sergio pushes his glasses up his face. Martín blinks against the black spots blocking his vision. "I listened to the messages you left him."

"You did?" Martín tries to get up, but he just goes crashing back to the ground again. His legs aren't working. "What, he refuses to listen them himself?"

"He is _dead_ , Martín!" Sergio snaps.

Martín stops trying to get up. He just stops.

He tries to laugh, but he can't quite manage it.

"What?"

Sergio runs his hands through his hair. He looks like a mad man. Martín isn't used to seeing Sergio like this. Like he is losing control. His hair sticks up in different directions. His hands are shaking.

He presses his hands against his eyes, behind his glasses. He sniffs.

Martín watches without even taking a breath.

Sergio collects himself back together, slowly, piece by piece.

Martín sits on the ground. He just sits.

Then Sergio looks at him. "Andrés is dead," he says. His voice doesn't even break this time.

Martín huffs out a breath. It sounds more like a confused whine.

"No, he isn't," he replies. He tries to get up again. The floor is like ice, he just keeps slipping.

"Yes, he is." Sergio walks forward. He offers a hand.

Martín takes it. Allows Sergio to pull him up.

The fridge starts beeping.

"Get the fuck out of my house," Martín says.

Sergio sighs. Sergio leaves.

*

"I've been thinking," Martín says. "I can't believe I was ever in love with you." He laughs.

His right arm is throbbing. He doesn't feel his left one.

"You're such a pretentious asshole." He licks his lips. Bites on them. He doesn't know what else to say.

He blinks against the ceiling. He blinks and he blinks and he blinks yet the tears don't go away. "Don't call me back."

He hangs up. The line dies.

Martín wants to die with it.

"This is Andrés. Leave a message after the beep."

"This is Andrés--"

"Leave a message after the beep--"

Martín blinks against the ceiling until he passes out.

*

"I don't know why you keep showing up at this point," Martín says with a grin. His hand is covered in bandages.

Sergio looks at him. Sergio just looks at him.

"I don't know either," Sergio says, in the end. "I don't want to keep doing this, again and again."

Martín laughs. He doesn't want to do this again and again either. Yet he keeps doing it.

"Tell your brother to grow some balls and come face me himself, then," he flexes his fingers. "He is my emergency contact, no?"

Sergio takes his glasses off, just to rub at his eyes.

"I can't keep doing this anymore, Martín," he says. "Do you understand what that means?"

Martín bites down on his bottom lip. As hard as he can. He wants to make it bleed, but he can't. It's just a dull pain, the throbbing.

"Yeah, sure," he says. "I get it."

Sergio makes some kind of noise. When Martín looks at him again, he finds Sergio crying.

"Sergio, it's okay," Martín says. He sits up on the bed. "You shouldn't have to be doing this anyway. Picking up after your brother… I get it. _I do._ "

Sergio wipes his cheeks. He looks at Martín like he is about to say _sorry, your dog died._

He looks at Martín like Martín died.

He looks at Martín, and Martín is almost sure something is dead, somewhere.

"Come on," Martín says. "Get me out of here, one last time."

Sergio signs him out.

Outside the hospital, their paths diverge.

"Sergio," Martín starts.

Sergio turns to look at him.

His hair isn't perfect like it always used to be. It looks messy, like he just rolled out of bed.

There are bags under his eyes.

There is a stain on the collar of his shirt.

Sergio looks tired. Sergio looks older. Sergio doesn't even look like Sergio anymore.

Martín licks his lips. "Tell Andrés I said _fuck you._ "

Then, they walk, in opposite directions.

Martín never sees Sergio again.

But Sergio sees Martín, one last time, at Martín's funeral.

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> warning for major character death
> 
> yikes


End file.
